Date: Thu, 24 Oct 91 4:21:33 EDT
From: "Len.Rose@federal.prison.on.our.tax.dollars.edu"
Subject: File 4--Letters from Prison: Installment #1

((Moderators' Note: Len Rose pled guilty to possession of unlicensed
source AT&T Unix source code and was sentenced to a year in prison.
Many of us feel that Len's sentence was unjustly harsh.  We've
received several long letters from Len, and he has given us permission
to reprint them in installments.  The single dominant theme is that
prisons are lonely, desolate places, and that even a minimum security
(Level-I) institution can by psychologically devastating)).

"Letters from Prison: Part of the Story."
By Len Rose (October, 1991)

Greetings from prison!

I have been here almost four months, and have six and a half left
before I can return to my family. Time passes very slowly here. I am
not sure if I will have a family to return to, but there is nothing I
can do to save them.  I'll discuss all of that in a few moments.

First, a general scenario. Prison life has been what I expected, with
a few excruciating exceptions. I'll elaborate on these, but let me say
that my life here has been easy. I live in a dormitory, along with 80
other convicts.  We have small, open cubicles, each containing a bunk
bed, two small lockers, a small desk, and one waste basket. For
someone with military experience, (I had six years of it), having to
perform tasks such as making beds (military style), stripping and
waxing floors, and generally maintaining the room in spotless
conditions is easy.

My work is easy. I pick up cigarette butts all day. We work seven hours
a day, five days a week. I get paid 12 cents an hour. It sounds like a
bad deal, unless you consider I get other benefits such as a place to
sleep, clothing, and of course food. Ah. The food. Well, I don't eat
breakfast often. It's not bad as far as breakfasts go. I won't say
anything more about that meal, except to mention the coffee. If you
can call it that. I don't. It's brown colored water. We have developed
theories as to where the coffee goes, but no one is certain. We
just know that we don't get it. Lunch isn't bad either. There are days
when it's actually edible. Ditto for supper. From looking at the weekly
menu, one could say that we are fed well.  However, the food is not
prepared correctly, and is often ruined. There are several factors
involved, none of which reflect anything wrong with the Bureau of
Prisons. The food is prepared by convicts, some of whom actually care
about their fellow convicts and take pride in their work.  The
majority of kitchen workers here, however, are bitter, unhappy people
who do the least they can get by with, and not face disciplinary
actions. The dishes and utensils are dirty. I have learned how to
sort through stacks of plates, rummage through utensil dispensers,
and choose clean cups. Again, I don't blame the BoP for this, since
they have to use the employees--whoops, convicts--they have available.

We compete weekly for the privilege of being called first to lunch and
supper. It's based on the scores we receive from an inspection of our
dorms. Once a week, we're inspected, and the dormitory that looks the
best wins the chance to eat first. There is a paradox here. One could
wonder why people are motivated to strive for this honor, but after
adapting to the food, learning that hunger is worse, you would be
surprised. Also, when you are the fifth or sixth dorm, you discover
that a lot of the "good" food is gone, and you have to eat what's
left. The dining hall is organized like a large cafeteria, with
two lines for food. There is also a salad bar.  (Thank God for the
salad bar). Well, enough said about the food.

Mail. When I first got here, we were called by dormitory each evening
to receive mail. An officer (or "hack") in convict language) would
pass out the mail in a circle of approximately 80 convicts. (If the word
"convict" assaults your sensibilities, feel free to substitute the word
inmate, guest, members, etc). It reminds me of army boot camp. I
cannot ever impress upon anyone the enormous importance of mail to
someone who has not been in jail or prison for any length of time. I am
not being dramatic.  It is a lifeline to a life that used to be. A link
with people you love and miss so badly it hurts. An affirmation that
you are still a person and somewhere out there is someone who
still cares. One letter can make the difference between sinking in utter
despair or gaining enough strength to last one more day. I will
never, never forget those kind people who've had the patience and
compassion to carry on a correspondence with me here. It has not been
easy for them, I am sure. God bless them all.

We can only receive mail Monday thru Friday, thus the weekends are
bleak for me. Many other convicts feel differently since they can
receive visits on the weekends. Since my wife and children are so far
away and can't afford to come see me, I'll never get a visit. To
combat my growing depression that seemed to materialize every Friday
evening, I volunteered to work on the weekends. It has helped a lot.
For those who are fortunate enough to receive visits, it's very nice.

There is a large visitor area with both indoor and outdoor areas.
They can spend an entire day with their visitors (usually wives and
children), often being able to hug and kiss a lot. I have been told
there is a lot of opportunity for mutual masturbation. Pitiful when
viewed by someone outside the system, but it's amazing what lovers
will do when they are forced into this situation. I have also heard of
the occasional brave souls who have actually consummated the act of
making love. I am told it's difficult, but not impossible. The visitor
area is under the constant scrutiny of at least two oficers. I would
not demean myself or my wife in such circumstances, but then again--I
have not been imprisoned very long.

I would give a year of my life to just be able to see my wife and
children. I can't express myself any other way, since it really is
the truth. I don't intend to be histrionic. "Just the facts, Man!" I
think that's enough on that subject too. (Sigh!).